The Clockwork Melody
by The Lucy Nation
Summary: Garrett is accidently robbed by a bumbling Nobleman, who recruits the Master Thief into tracking down his kidnapped wife. But things are seldom what they seem... Rescue turns to Revenge in this tale of love gone sour.
1. The Intruder

**The Clockwork Melody**

By _The Lucy Nation_

The world, characters and locations of Thief (c) Looking Glass Studios (RIP) and Eidos. One Step Forward lyrics (c) The Color Green. George Mifune (c) the Lucy Nation.

*** 

Troubled young man comes walking this way  
and he's walking real tall like this is his day!  
and his boots make him strong, well that's what he thinks  
but he can't disappear in the whiskey he drinks  
and the harder he asks yeah the deeper he seeks

One step forward and two steps back  
he might be strange but he has a knack  
he'll lift his arms up to the sky and say  
"Oh my god, don't you let her say good-bye!"

***

Chapter 1: The Intruder.

The day I met George 'Mouse' Mifune was the day I learnt that whoever puppeted the strings of life had a sense of humour. Because, as the old jackablade saying goes, some things are just so horrible they're funny. 

The city was, on that aforementioned day, a particular shade of miserable that lulled even the sewer rats into depression. Icy drizzle rained down from the heavens in a steady stream causing great rolling clouds of insufferable grey to blanket out the sweetly-warm sun. Winter was closing in with it's most treasured of tactics - the slow crawl of bitterness. It rained so often the sewers were threatening to either deafen us with their roar or burst out onto the slick streets. It keep people inside, doors and windows closed; my opportunities (not to mention savings) were falling to an all time low. I was forced to pawn off the last of my precursor statuettes, of which I attached priceless memories of cheating Karath-Din. As I was handed the cash equivalent, a queer though entered my mind proposing I go back to the city for what I'd left behind in my hurry. I dismissed it at the time, but as the days progressed I found my mind wandering back to it again. So much of the 'lost' city was buried beneath centuries of mud and soil, it needed only a gentle push... but I digress.

The bulldogs were out in force, again, during those unpleasant days. They're been a tip-off to the masses that a new Sheriff would soon be appointed, as the current one was growing both senile and sideways. Word was that a high-ranker in Warden Affairs called Druart (or Truart, I can never remember which) was the new man for the job. You might think that the people would be happy to receive a fresh face for their biding, but as sure as a Burrick's bad breath, they apposed it. Warden Affairs was no longer smiled upon by anyone but the Wardens themselves - after all, their blind eyes were the stuff of legends. 

The City didn't want a man with the moral fibre of a small mushroom in charge of protection and honesty. So, running with the only plan they liked, they protested with an unsurpassed level of crime. Stores were robbed at all hours, public statues toppled or defaced and more windows broken than cobble stones in the street. Far be it for me to pass judgment on such activities (broken windows were open windows, so I to did my bit for the crime spree statistics) but I couldn't help but sympathise with their cause... true, it was a cause that's ultimate goal was putting my kind out of business with a heavy hand - but a city in the aftershocks of tragedy had a right to be scared witless of letting such things happen again. Just as I had a right to _not_ be a hero. 

It'd been a difficult few years since the Trickster walked (Or, as the Town Office reported, 'The Plague struck'), an uneasy silence had permeated every living aspect of the once flourishing city. Things were dull and tired now. At least business was... the people were steadily growing more fed up with each day's passing. They wanted a guaranteed slice of security in case a new threat to their lives tried to rear it's ugly head. I don't blame them.

Alas, it was in the wake of this new found freedom that the police decided to reaffirm their attitude. They put a bulldog on every corner the day before the weather went sour, and promised a swift kick to anyone that passed within yards of them. Which, suffice it to say, they did. One miserable night I saw a harmless old woman get a sharp kick to the hip for asking directions to the Shoalsgate Station. With the usual un-caring glare the city watch had managed to return their beat to normal again. Bully for them.

It was scarcely a week since their posting and the weathers turn for worse that I found myself awoken sharply from a light sleep. I'd worked a market depot the night before and twisted an ankle, so my sleep was marred by pain. At first I'd though that was the reason for the sudden expulsion from my dreams but the side of me that'd survived these long years knew otherwise... It was the time of night between too late and too early that police raids favoured most, and as a quick glance to the skyline warned me - that time was now. 

The disturbance was located in my living room, as shuffling footfalls and the creak of moved furniture denoted, so I slithered out of my bed and slipped into the tiled bathroom. It was an all-too familiar experience. The relocation was soundless, as I'd learnt from previous experience that noisy bathrooms were as annoying as a Hammerite Sermon. A tapestry from Lord Bafford's 'Throne Room' lined the floor to quieten it. My tightly bandaged foot rested gratefully against the surface as cold as it was soft.

I took the small dagger and flash bomb I kept hidden behind a loose tile under the sink, and readied them in my hands; the infamous flash-n-stab technique was coming to mind. I waited a while till the living room had ceased making noise and I fell suspicious - Bulldogs announced their arrival like the grand navy. I felt through instinct that there was only one hapless intruder in my midst, and a quiet one at that. At least compared to the law-enforces he was.

I heard the outside window frame give a awful groaning creak, followed by the sound of glassware tumbling of a table and shattering. A deep and warbling voice cried out a 'Damn and blast it!' then an 'Argh!' as I heard the table get a thump and the glass re-crunched. He'd just rammed into the outer wall? It was then that a certain thought had entered my mind.

Could it be... that I was being robbed? 

'Why yes, yes it could.' I mused aloud and grinned wolfishly.

This had only ever happened once before in the years I'd been living here. A young stable boy from an estate around the corner had followed me home one night, thinking me a clerk, and threatened me at dagger point for all my valuables. As luck would have it (were I to believe in luck), the kid had fainted the moment I turned around and withdrew my hood - not because he saw before him the legendary old thief, but because of my mechanical eye glaring out at him. Seemed he was the creative squeamish sort. As a fitting punishment I'd dragged him to the corner sewers and dropped him, bound and gagged, into it's inky blackness. I know first hand just what horrors the mind can produce when left to wander in dark, noisy passages. 

The intruder let out a musical whelp and another of my valuable trinkets bit the dust. 

I slid out from the bathroom and limped towards the closet. It was diagonally across the room and just far enough for my ankle to start singing Bright and Holy Builder again. Faint and clever moonlight was filtering in from the window I'd left open not two hours ago, so unlike my unwelcome guest I was able to traverse freely. Not that I couldn't have done so without it - this was my home, after all, and I'll be damned if I ever live in an unfamiliar place. 

Inside the closet was another thing entirely, because I had to shut the door behind me in order to open the _secret_ door within - the resting place of all my more illegal possessions. A few of them were incandescent oddities picked up over a month ago from an alchemists. Arcane imported stuff that fetched a high price but glowed a bright blue when not properly heated. I intended to sell the small pebble-looking things back to whom I stole it from in another months time. I snatched up my blackjack and a length of rope before sealing the secret closet once again and returning to my bedroom. 

The plan was simple - sneak up behind the unlucky thief and knock his lights out, tie him up, and sit him half on the canal steps and half in the canal itself. I moved calmly towards our connecting door, dragged my right foot only slightly, and pressed my naked hand across the frigid bronze doorknob. 

The shuffling on the other side had stopped, a heaving breathing replacing it. I could here him fumbling with something mechanical and panic welled up in me as I realised I'd left my eye-cleaning kit (complete with two spares) laid out on the fireplace mantel. I prepared myself to rush in and disable him quickly but a sudden, unexpected noise stopped me within a heartbeat. 

A melody, clear and mournful sliced through the air. It sounded haunting in such an unlikely environment and I recognised it as belonging to a music box I kept displayed on a shelf near the mantel. I'd stolen it from Lady Velarius' room in the Opera House on my quest for the Water Talisman. 

An even stranger noise now exploded from the intruder - it sounded like a wailing sob then a gasp of fright. He'd finally managed to find the light switch and got a good look at the room. I cursed myself for pausing in my attack, as now he was alerted and well lit. I decided to wait in the still pristine darkness of the master bedroom until his curiosity brought him inside. Minutes passed without sound or incident.

'Picked a fine time to start being quiet.' I growled to myself.

A few minutes more and I threw caution to the wind, flying into my own living room with the blackjack held high, my moss-green bedclothes sailing every-which-way. A quick scan of the area and I lowered my arms heavily with a snort of defeat.

The intruder had left, leaving behind a mess of broken fragiles and an empty space where the music box once rested - except that space was not-quite empty. A yellowed note held fort there now.

I dragged my throbbing foot across the room, snatched the parchment up and sat down heavily in my reading chair. It read Thus:

_My most humble apologies, Master Thief Garrett! _

_I was unaware this was your residence till I'd_

_spied my music box. It's very valuable to me, you_

_see, and I must insist I have it back. If you _

_feel sore about it, meet me in the The Last _

_Goodbye tomorrow and I'll lace your palms with _

_something far better. I'll be the one wearing a _

_black cloak standing in the shadows. I might _

_or might not have brown boots._

_- G. M. Esqr._

On the back in smudgy ink it also read:

_P.S SORRY ABOUT THE VASE_

I let out a weary sigh and an even wearier snort of laughter.

I'd been robbed by a complete taffer.


	2. The Proposition

**The Clockwork Melody**

By _The Lucy Nation_

The world, characters and locations of Thief (c) Looking Glass Studios (RIP) and Eidos. George Mifune (c) the Lucy Nation.

Chapter 2: The Proposition.

The Last Goodbye was a small tavern filled to the brim with romantic clientele – definitely not my usual haunt. The only reason I'd even heard of the place was Big Molly's fault. She sometimes bussed tables in her 'gentlemen friend's' tavern, the Crippled Burrick, and liked to talk whether you were interested or not. She would prattle on about the Goodbye's famous poet circles, woman adventurers and foreign visitors. More than likely it was just the meeting place for drunken artistic types that told tall tales. Either way I wasn't welcome.

 It was located a few streets away from the modest market down in Dayport, and a good walk for my stinging ankle to bear. The injury had grown worse in the 16 hours since the intrusion on my solitude. My mood was a great deal poorer. I liked walking into situations having the upper hand – like playing with a full deck of cards rigged in your favor. This little excursion left me limping into a game without rules and a 22 card deck. It annoyed me, pure and simple. Everything from humoring a complete taffer (who, justifiably said, I owed nothing to – let alone my illusive company) to having to lower my standards. Then there was the costume.

From what I knew of The Last Goodbye, I figured walking in there flashing my mechanical eye would be folly – these folks tended to seek out eye contact. Likewise with the heavy cloak and hood up. They were actors and dimwitted poetics; they looked upon the dangerously mysterious types as targets for mirth. The day any real 'adventurous' men waltzed onto those grounds they'd be thrown back out into the street. I guess my one-or-two trips to the docks inspired my eventual compromise – an eye patch. As a boy I'd thought myself a pirate.

The crude thing was fashioned from a pocket on one of my unlucky cloaks, strung together with a length of vine and tied behind my right ear. Coupled with an old set of robes (they'd grown too small and hugged around the chest) it was just shabby enough to evoke some sympathy with the stage-folk. At least I'd hoped it did. I don't like being seen, pirate costume or otherwise. For what it's worth, the weather through my walk matched this concern of mine.

It was both rainy and foggy, which didn't surprise me at all. If I'd had a mind clear of anger I might have felt unease at how the great swirling masses of grey seemed alive and in a stalking mood. It kept me blanketed and hidden by will alone. I smiled an evil little grin at a servant girl who hurried to beat the Trickster home, her fingers tearing frightened holes in the wilted lettuce she gripped. She took one look at my hulking, limping, grinning, one-eyed figure and let out a terrified moan before dashing off into the darkness. She was the only soul I'd bumped into till Dayport.

And then, there I was. Standing across the street from The Last Goodbye, Tavern and Inn. The entrance was guarded by two stone pillars wrapped in thin bronze vines, flanked by large glowing windows. It looked warm inside, so swallowing whatever nagging protests my mind still held, I pushed the door open and waltzed inside. 

The smell of the place hit me first, followed by the wall of heat from three separate fireplaces. The stench was spice and ale, equal parts, as if they'd melted together over a coal pit. The furnishings were somewhere between eccentric and breathtaking (Another Burrick head, I'd noticed). Tapestries hung from every wall except the bar, which housed an impressive array of bright liquids. The overall theme was of red, silver and green, with only the occasional ale stain. The 30 or so customers prancing about were just as I'd expected. They also matched the scenery.

I took my jagged walk to the bar, well aware that over a dozen eyes had locked on to me for my lengthy pause at the door. I paid no attention to them and, taking my seat at the mahogany bench, ordered a stiff drink from the equally stiff bartender. No exaggeration there – the man looked like the dead walking. And I would know. He was in direct contrast to every other living thing in the room with his shriveled back eye-sockets and drab clothing. He had long, silvery hair that he kept swept back from his face to float eerily down his back. A high collar masked a thin neck. He didn't like me, I could tell, so I paid the geezer and took my drink to an open stall near a dimming fire. 

The mysterious G M Esqr hadn't approached me yet and I was almost thankful. Despite a certain malice in the room drifting towards me, the atmosphere was actually somewhat pleasant. My drink was laden with an unknown spice and it wiped the edge off my nerves, so when looking through the room I found myself more curious than suspicious. It was a feeling that didn't come around often.

The Last Goodbye was dark with sporadic bursts of orange brightness, the perfect tavern atmosphere that served both in setting the mood and inspiring drunkenness. At first glance the patrons seemed to be variations of the one theme. Deviants. To my amusement I wasn't the only one present wearing an eye-patch either, as a whole group of aspiring pirates to my left raised their tankards in respect. I shot them a fake and toothy grin that turned them back to chatter again. Towards my right a mock swordfight was being carried on between a gruff man I recognized and a woman I didn't. She had long, red-gold hair tightly braided back against her skull to lie limp against her back, and wore a rogue's clothing with oversized boots of dull green. The man (whom I recognized as the archer from Lord Bafford's who liked the bear pits) was trying to teach her the finer points of sword fighting while inebriated. There was a good crowd lined up around them watching their antics. 

I'd just finished my spiced drink when the object of my manifestation appeared from behind the jutting edge of the fireplace to my left. He was wearing the black cloak he'd promised and yes… brown boots. The figure looked nervous and flew towards the bar – as he passed my alcove I swung an arm out and stopped him in his tracks. 

'G M Esquire?' It was little more than a growl, the alcohol's fault. Ah hell… I meant it to sound mean. 

'Maybe…' That same warbling voice as the intruder.

'Well if it is the G M Esquire beneath that hood than he should take a seat and be done with it.'

'So you're… Garrett?'

'Maybe…' I had to hold up my end of this incredible flow of wit.

'Well then, maybe George M and maybe Garrett are good enough grounds for a conversation!' And he sat down promptly, spreading his elbows across the table and leaning forward, chin in hands. Such a boyish gesture had caught me off guard, so I automatically leant back against my seat. 'Is something wrong?' He asked innocently.

I lifted up a heavy gloved hand and pointed a long bony finger towards his elbows. 'Do you mind?'

'Oh, of course, sorry!' And he dragged the heavy hood off his head, revealing a young and panic-stricken pale face. Big, bulging blue eyes poked out from under a mess of dirty blonde hair. He radiated a spoilt-nobleman's-son charm, despite his early-thirties-ish appearance. And he went right back to his elbow placement. 'You know, I'd thought you'd be wearing a cloak too, otherwise I would have said an eye-patch for myself. Being an ex-Keeper and all…'

'Can we cut the small talk and get on with the business at hand? This isn't a social call.' 

'Right, well… Here's the thing. I entered your quite nice little house – not that little is a bad thing. Or that it's a house… because it is a wonderful apartment. Big apartment. I entered it because I need to get back into the good books of Emily, my wife and Vera my, uh, special friend. You see they're both terribly fascinated by you mysterious types and not so interested in Dashingly Good-Looking Nobles such as myself anymore. It's the danger thing, you know women.'

'No, not really.'

'Oh begging your pardon, but come off it! A legend like you? You must have enough jewelry swinging round the old place to impress even the Lady Velarius herself! Gosh, I'd always though you went into thievery for just that very reason…' I lifted a hand up to my eye patch and loosened its strings. 'I mean, I did didn't I? Bloody brave of me too, nearly getting killed and all…' I let the flimsy material slip from my face and fall to the table. 

'G M' fell silent, his mouth gaping open as he stared at my eye. Subconsciously he shut his left goldfish eye into a squint and wrinkled his nose. I growled, in my most civil tone, for him to get on with it.

'I'm sorry, Garrett… it's just that meeting you is… a rare privilege. A rare privilege under somewhat unsettling circumstances. My wife was kidnapped three days ago and there's been no news from the villains responsible. The music box was hers…' he let out a little sob and withdrew the polished trinket from within his robes. 'And you stole it from her some time ago. Emily was heartbroken.'

'I stole it from the Opera House, Velarius' room. It was under lock and key in a wall safe.' I was glad my guest had settled down into a normal rhythm, but it didn't rest my uneasiness over where the conversation was heading.

'Yes, that evil witch stole it from her while my poor pumpkin was up on stage.'

'So really I stole it from Velarius.'

He paused and muttered something under his breath.

'Who are you and WHY am I here…? Am I to be paid or what?' 

'Oh of course… I'm Squire Mifune of Mifune & Marlocke Imports – you can call me George, Mr. Garrett. As for why you're here – it's a little complicated.' He started to look around the room in hasty sweeps. 'I know I promised to pay you off, and I'm still sorry about the vase, but I can't give you anything right this minute… other than a proposition.' He looked like he'd swallowed a fire arrow with that last sentence. The cords in his neck were knotting up and sticking out, his mouth pressed into a thin pale line and his eyes looked watery and pained. I had a feeling I knew what he was going to ask…

'You want me to get your wife back, don't you.'

George nodded grimly. 'I'll cover all our expenses, including a trip to some rather nice imports that fell off the barge. And when you get my Emily back I'll make you a very, very rich man.'

'How rich?'

'40% of this years profits from Imports… that's 80% of my shares. I'll be on bread and milk for months.' He was serious.

'You really love her that much?' I inquired, somewhat jaded. 

'Oh yes, Emily is the sand on all my beaches.'

The profit appeared worth it – how much trouble could finding a wife be? It wasn't exactly my forte, but then anyone who can steal from an angry God surely has potential to expand their repertoire without compromising their standards. I couldn't live up my past exploits _all_ the time. I needed a break from honest thievery, anyway. With opportunities low and my stash lower, this seemed perfect – and all I had to do was hang around in taverns listening for gossip. 

'Give me 2000 up front and we have a deal, George.'

He fished around in his robes, making a comical expression in the process, and threw a bulky purple bag of gold onto the table. It landed with a heavy thud that shook the rickety wooden surface. 

'I though you might ask for some upfront, so I came prepared.' He was pleased with himself and leant back in his chair.

'And what if I'd come here to rob you?' It was a genuine question, albeit mean. 

George looked away towards the fire, thinking it over with a sulky look on his face. I swiped my payment off the table and tied it to my belt with thick cord. It now became an annoying weight against my hip – a welcome nuisance. 

'I'll contact you through your imports with a delivery marked 'Quintus', should the need arise.' I fixed my eye-patch up again and readied myself to leave. George looked lost, as if he'd missed the point of my words.

'You're not leaving so soon, are you?' He asked, a touch hurt.

'Yes.' And I stood up.

'But when do we start? Where do we meet?' He asked and stood up himself. 

'What…?

'But of course – you didn't think you'd have to do all this alone, did you? George Mifune is not a gentleman to be rude to his employees!'

'There is no way I'm letting you tag along.' I snarled and moved to leave, but George flung out a thin hand and snagged my arm. He turned me around and poked me in the chest with another obnoxious lean digit. I then had to restrain myself from hitting the pretentious brat.

'Now you listen here, Mr. Garrett! This is my wife we're talking about, AND my muh-money! You might be the greatest thief this city's ever seen, but I've stolen from you! By crikey, I even broke your buh-bloody vase! Now you can call me what ever you like, and treat me like the complete taffer I am – but I'm jolly well coming with you or you'll have no money and no job! Is that okay with you, Mr. Garrett?!' He looked mad – crazy mad. 'Well IS IT?'

I took a while to answer him, making sure to shoot a one-eyed glare to induce death in his direction. 'George.' I growled and grabbed his feeble wrist, squeezing it hard till he yelped and released his fingers. 'Don't ever do that again.' I turned my back to him and let a grumble rattle in my throat. 

'Wait…'  He nearly cried it out.

I shook my head and glared at the fire. 'I don't suffer fools easily…' Insert a long, dramatic pause. 'but I expect you at my front door come dusk tomorrow. Alone.'

'Oh, Thank –'

I cut him off by lurching out. 


	3. The Intruder of a Different Kind

**The Clockwork Melody**

By _The Lucy Nation_

The world, characters and locations of Thief © Looking Glass Studios (rip) and Eidos. George Mifune, original locations and characters © The Lucy Nation

Chapter 3: An intruder of a different kind

          My sleep was marred with nagging regrets, that night after George put a stamp on my affairs – Let it never be assumed that Garrett likes to share. Or be touched. I could still feel his insolent grip on my arm. Things like that didn't happen often in my somewhat stable life, let alone from the whelps I usually considered prey. I'm not a man of sadistic tendencies when I think that, either. I think them prey in the same way they think of the poor… and women. Who's the monster there? Not this honest thief.

George had rattled my brain, that much I knew. It wasn't the spirits I ingested or even the jovial costume I was wearing at the time – it had been George, the stupid squire, who'd gotten into my mind. Him and his tomboy courage under fire… it would be a damn difficult job keeping him out of my way if we had to work together.

I slept all the next day, until evening, to heal up all the various problems occurring in my wiry old frame. If my ankle showed no improvement by next week, I would be forced to take myself to a physician. 

That thought proved even less comforting that George's company, so I used it throughout the evening as an 'It could be worse' type motto. It helped.

***

I'd just finished packing my swag for our gallant adventure when a sharp rapping came at my door. It was only just past six bells, making me annoyed that George's desperation would interfere with my rapidly cooling supper. I had no intentions of sharing what pitiful meal I'd managed to roast with a halfwit noble. 

I slipped a dagger up my sleeve, as a simple precaution, when I made my way to the dusty wooden entrance. Peering through a hidden knot-hole next to a silver hinge I saw that my visitor was anything _but_ George.

It was a woman.

Wearing an eye patch.

I sighed. "What do you want?"

"Open up, Garrett. There's something you should know."

I grudgingly unlocked the heavy door and swung it open for her. Like I'd never heard that line before – there was always something someone else thought that I should know about a job or an employer; usually it was only the slightest bit of use to me. What I'd really like to know is how these people keep getting hold of my number.

"You're making a terribly mistake." She droned in a surprisingly deep tone of voice. The woman paced commandingly across the room and planted herself upon my couch, her damp chestnut cloak swooning out around her. While she surveyed my humble abode I took the opportunity to survey her. Brunette, pale and thin. Her lips were inked a cherry red, the same colour as the corset pushing up her tiny breasts. A long burgundy skirt puddled down to her feet – a wet stain ringed the bottom. I noticed the muddy tracks she'd brought in from the door…

"Aren't you curious about your folly?" She was staring directly into my eyes now, trying to gain the upper hand. I broke the contact and turned to lock the door, letting her simmer for a few minutes. I made sure to draw out the motion of walking back to my chair (though I hid my limp remarkable well) and pouring myself a drink. When next I looked in her direction she was biting her lip nervously and gazing at the floor. Perfect.

"Can I inquire as to why this is any of your business?" I grumbled over the top of my goblet. She brightened up.

"Well you're taking up Emily's case, are you not? I'm… a friend of hers, and Mr. Garrett… she doesn't _wish to be found." She massaged her fingers as she spoke, a nervous gesture._

"Your point…?"

"My point is leave well enough alone! That husband of hers is a lying adulterer, and he's had this a long time coming – Emily wasn't kidnapped, she left! She couldn't stand that foppish oaf a second longer. If she wasn't such a lady she would have hired me to do away with him." She paused. "Tis a pity she didn't".

"Oh… so let me guess. You're the city's first and best female assassin. Should I be scared, Cherry Lips?' I pulled my lip up into a sneer. "Because I ain't."

She shot me a dirty look that narrowed her eyes into cat-like slits. "No, _Thief, I'm not some disgusting shadow hugger like your kind – I have an unfavourable cousin with strong nefarious contacts. I believe you've heard of him."_

          "Oh really… who?"

          "Goes by the name of Farkus, sneakiest bastard alive."

I let out a dry chuckle at this. "Wrong, Cherry. Farkus took an arrow to the throat years ago… and _I'm_ the sneakiest bastard alive." She went rigid at this news, unable to process it all at once. Upset sorrow wasn't quite the word I'd use to describe the sudden swell of emotion grabbing her face – more like annoyance. This woman was more concerned about her future plans coming unwoven than her cousins murder. Either way, my wit flew right over her head.

"Were you present?" she finally asked in a flat monotone.

"If you're wondering if I killed him, I didn't… but yes, I was there. That arrow was meant for me."

"Then how terribly noble you were, Mr. Garrett, to allow my cousin to cop the sting of your troubles."

I was a breath away from ordering the lady out of my house, but when my emerald-amber eye managed to catch sight of the wicked grin parting her lips, my anger dropped like a stone. I recognised that toothy snarl…

          "Hmm hmm hmm" She tittered mildly. "I see you're finally waking up, lost boy." Her smile spread like a rip in red satin, revealing sharpened yellow fangs. I dropped my goblet. "Or should I say… MANFOOL!"

I flew out of my chair, knocking it sideways into the wall with a fantastic crack. The dagger up my sleeve became the dagger in my hand, as whatever beast exploded from that noblewoman's body gave off its first bloodcurdling shriek of laughter. Something green and sinewy was pushing its way out from where her eyes had been – the sight of which made me recoil and nearly wretch. Her body was pulsing as if filled with snakes… or vines…

Without thinking I threw the dagger hard and fast, straight for its forehead. I'd barely heard the blade's sickening crunch before I sat bolt upright in bed.

It'd been a dream. A horribly real dream.

I swung my legs over onto the cold carpet, bowing my head over my knees. My heart was still racing inside my ribs. I gazed over at the clock on my wall and saw that it was thirteen o'clock.

I blinked. "What the…?"

A cold, slimy finger caressed my injured ankle, making me catapult backwards over the bed and into the bathroom, locking myself in. My breath was coming in short sharp gasps. "What do you want?!" I yelled, grabbing my sword from its secret compartment. All I got in return was a rotting laugh and the squelch of something heavy and wet dragging itself across the carpet towards my door…

          "I just want what everyone wants, Garrett-t-t-t…" it stuttered the last of my name on purpose, like a drunken guard calling out for a stubborn housecat. "But I'm the one who intends to keep her… so Garrett has to be a good thief and leave my Emily alone." The movement stopped. "Can you do that, Garrett-t-t-t? Can you be a good thiefsie?"

Not knowing what else to say to such a request, I said I'd Try.

And then I woke up again… only this time I was alone in the dark reality of my modest room.

Two things I now knew – somebody was using cheap tricks against me, someone surprisingly good…

And George Mifune had some explaining to do.

Eh, if his conclusions and progressions seem horribly out of character, please wait till the next chapter.

A big Thank You to the Reviewers, for you tread such fine ground splendidly.


	4. Confessions and Progressions

**The Clockwork Melody**

By _The Lucy Nation_

The world, characters and locations of Thief © Looking Glass Studios (rip) and Eidos. George Mifune, original locations and characters © The Lucy Nation. "_When fortune smiles..._" quote © Quentin Tarantino.

Chapter 4: Confessions and Progressions 

Before his first knock had a chance to hit the wood, I'd thrown open the door and dragged him inside, his impossibly polished boots flailing. I sunk both my fists into the soft palette of his velvet collar and lifted him a good foot in the air. Using our combined momentum I carried him over towards the window and flung him halfway out. His blushing head dangled wildly about when he caught a glimpse of the water-slick streets shimmering so far bellow. The steady thick droplet's of rain falling from the abysmal sky did well to mix with his sweat. 

"Three Questions, George." 

While I'd firmly grasped whatever attentions he possessed, I'd still have bet Ol' Bafford's staff that he wouldn't be listening to a word I said - so with every syllable I shook his legs, if anything I'd press my anger onto him. 

"_What_ do you know of the Order of the Vine, _are _you in anyway lying to me and _is_ there a history of zombiism in your family?"

"What? Garrett? I don't know! What is -"

I let him slip another set of inches towards the street.

"Okay! I'm sorry! I'm a lying bastard she _wasn't_ kidnapped she _left_ with all her stuff and note saying she _hated_ me and that she was staying with a Vine Priest those _filthy pagans_ now I'm all alone and I want my money back because I have a _gambling_ problem... Oh by the _BUILDER_ I'm scared of heights!" He hastily covered his eyes and began muttering a prayer. I pulled him back inside and dropped him to the red and gold carpeted floor. His Hammerite prayer ceased and he looked up cautiously, those big blue eyes of his swimming like a toddlers. He delicately wiped the sodden blonde fringe off his face. If I wasn't so angry, I probably would have felt sorry for him.

"So she left with a Vine, did she... Male or Female?"

"A man, named Raoul. He was a tall weed of a thing - gaunt like a bloody skeleton and always preaching on about something or other. I'd only met him just the once when Emily insisted on inviting her Opera House friends over for dinner. She seemed quite smitten with him, much to my utter shock. The man had nothing going for him aside from the silk in his robes. Awfully annoying whiny voice. Yet she just had to laugh at _his_ jokes and not at _mine_." He pounded his fist on the floor and grimaced in pain.

"Get up, George." I groaned and headed into the kitchen. Awaiting me was the meal I'd cooked twice tonight - once asleep and once awake. A leg of mutton and a cucumber... the top of my culinary talents. I dumped it on a silver tray and returned to my living room just as George carried his brooding self into the very chair the Viktoria-impersonator in my dreams had occupied. Yet purple-woven silks and dirty blonde hair were a far better match then cherry-blood-red and melting green.

So he had confirmed what my nightmare guest had sung - the woman wasn't kidnapped, she'd left the pathetic drip and run off. Which, had I been any other man in any other profession, might have tugged twice at my heartstrings and convinced me to drop this awful charade of a partnership - how could I be convinced to make a profit from dragging some poor, miserable woman back to her upper-class prison? Ha, mental snort, easy... I'd be _making a profit_. If a childhood of Keeper training didn't inspire a sense of professional morality by this night and year, than by no means would a broken marriage. Why I was even thinking about it astounded me - had the vision shaken me down further than I thought it would? Perhaps. But the vision was essential to this 'case', because it proved a great many things - least of all that George was both lying and scum. What it didn't prove, was an underlying river of self-doubt.

Quite the contrary, it was luring my wits in further. 

"Tell me, George..." I snapped the cucumber in half theatrically, noticing with pleasure the gulp my inbred friend now suddenly tried to hide. Good... be afraid, George. Be very afraid. "... everything you know about Lady Valarius. Her wealth, her friends, her contacts with Emily... her voice." I munched lazily on my meal, hoping this wouldn't take all night - I'd laid the bait for him to solve who'd taken his wife, and I'd laid it without patronising or frightening him further. If he came to the same decision as I did, without me having to spell it out directly, he might regain the parts of his composure I somewhat admired. Consider it my form of apology... to bring back my client's self-pride without his destructive arrogance.

"Well, uh... she's tall, thin - partially pretty. Owns half the artistic scene after she weaselled the Opera house out of that poor fool Raou-" He stopped sharp.

You could almost hear the tiny cogs and gears whirring around in his brain.

I nodded, grinning... could he connect the dots as faster than I thought?

"Or was it Richard, I can't quite remember. I never really cared for that family - inbred idiots, mother said. No wonder he got the Opera snatched out from under his feet, ay?" He snorted and went on. "Oh, but the Lady owns them all now, haven't seen Richard in months... Valarius even had his statue destroyed so that no one could recognise him in the street anymore, that evil trollop. Still, my Emily always did admire her political sense - she used to say that wicked Lady had a plan for everything, and that nothing ever ruffled her feathers. Until you stole that stone, heh heh. That really set her skirts on fire, couldn't have happened at a better time, either. Emily didn't speak to her for days after that - because her Melody Box was gone. I remember her coming up to me and sobbing on about 'The clockwork's gone, the clockwork's gone' - like it was a sign from heaven by the builder himself. Oh, but Lady Valarius kept on trying to win her back, till finally she-"

"GEORGE." I finally interjected with a heaving sigh. "I admire your ability to drone on gratuitously without hide-nor-hair of a point because granted, it's a skill all gentlemen should aspire to hold - but please, for the sake of keeping your head attached to your shoulders, _try_ to see the reason for my interest in Lady Valarius." A took a sip of my warming drink. "And bare in mind it's Raoul, not Richard, that she banished into obscurity... months and months ago."

His pallid brow furrowed as he thought this over. For a quick second, I almost heard him ask how I knew about Raoul - but thinking it wiser (and a large degree safer) not to question me in my exasperated anger he fell back into the rhythm of thinking, not questioning. The silence was a welcome one, and after a few lengthy seconds of it, I returned to my meal with the full intention of eating it completely before I'd speak another word. But as it turned out, such delay tactics weren't needed... for even when every scrap of flesh was wiped from my plate, George was still thinking. I licked my fingers gracefully and sighed.

"The Raoul you saw at dinner that night was Lady Valarius in disguise - she was building up her alibi." I offered and knotted my hands together beneath my chin. The noble's expression turned from grim to surprised as he leant back further in my richly-upholstered armchair, his eyebrows bare millimetres from his hair-line. "From what you described to me, it couldn't possibly be him - I've met the real Raoul. He's a hermit in the sewers - quite insane with bitterness. All he ever did was drone on and on in Opera Speak about the Lady's betrayal... in a rich, deep voice. The Raoul at your dinner party was a) Sane b) Whiney and c) A pagan." I drew in a deep breath, then puffed it out in a small laugh. "And the Raoul I know is definitely not a member of the Vine Order, however badly he smells."

"But... I would have recognised her, surely!" He tried - I shook my head. "I mean... oh Dear."

I lifted myself up and carried my tray back to the kitchen, from which my grumbling voice carried out steady and strong. "Congratulations, your wife left you for a pagan sorceress who owns half the dandy scene... nice, if not a touch unwarranted." I heard him snort a laugh of bemusement. "You're not too bad George, I've met worse fops in my time... but that doesn't mean these - extra developments, won't end up costing you dearly." I returned from the kitchen with a bottle of fairly bad wine (Curtesy of The Crippled Burrick's unlocked cellar door) and an extra goblet. I refilled my cup and poured out his. He moved to take it but I waved him off.

"Now, we can continue in one of three ways. First, you consider the challenge no longer up to either of our standards - meaning you want to cancel this agreement forthwith and pay me for my services so far. Second, you can resign yourself to being the client only - you won't come with me in my outings, you won't arrive here unexpected and you won't pry into my... means of investigation. You'll pay me twice the agreed figure since the agreed assignment has grown beyond a simple rescue mission. And thirdly... lucky last - You can decide that getting your wife back is no longer an option, because now you have the chance of getting something better..."

"Getting... what?"

"Revenge." I scoffed and took a long sip of bitter wine.

"Oh... er..."

"George, you might not understand this... but being who I am, I don't make a lot of friends. Well... none that I like." He perked up a bit at this. "And sometimes, sometimes I tend to keep an eye out for fellows whom I admire from afar. I consider Raoul to be one of those people..." George looked a bit crestfallen at this admition, as he'd probably been hoping I was referring to him. Heh. "He may be crazy, bitter, twisted and creepy... but he took a chance and helped me out - albeit, to forward his own goals... but I'd like to give him something back. This, Squire Mifune, has the potential to work out _extremely_ well in your favour. It's not every day the greatest Thief this city's _never_ seen decides to hand out favours." The corners of my lips lifted into a cat-like smile. I love blowing my own horn, however vulgar that sounded. 

"But... it's a little harsh, isn't it?" He winced. I could tell he liked the idea of getting back at his wife a lot more than he wanted to believe - but there was something holding him back. "I mean, sure she's a cold, cruel bitch who uses her feminine whiles to drain men of the will to live... but revenge... What would the builder think?"

Oh, so there it was - Georgey believed in Eternal Paradise. From his hasty prayers earlier, I knew he was of the faith... but really, he commits adultery like it was nothing but strawberry crumpets - yet revenge was suddenly a sin. I shook my head... why was it that I knew so many people with selective morality? It's one thing to be a bastard, but the least you could do was admit that your pass card through the holy gates was slowly expiring. 

"Let me tell you something, George... When fortune smiles on something as _violent_ and _ugly_ as revenge, not only is it _proof_ that the builder _ exists_ - but that you're _doing his will_." I slid his goblet closer to him, targeting my predatory green eye on him. He had to know how much I was offering him here, and how rare such a conversation like this occurred. He looked away from me sourly and focused his gaze out the window. It was still raining, still foggy and cold. The steady pale wash down the smoke-blackened roof of the house adjacent looked oddly morose and morbid. His eyes dimmed and misted up as he thought about the fate awaiting his wife and cohorts if he agreed. It was a sobering sight to behold.

"Okay, Mr Garrett." He reached out and snagged his goblet, his face still scrunched and sour and his tone of voice a touch acidic. "Revenge it is."

I raised my cup to his. "To the fall of Lady Valarius." We chinked together, sealing the deal as gentlemen would - a Thief and a Nobleman, together in a pact of wicked deeds.

"The Fall of Lady Valarius." He echoed, and we drank. 


End file.
